


drown the horror

by humanveil



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 06:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8194766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: It starts unexpectedly, like they all do. He thinks, maybe, he ought to start expecting them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this was more or less written on my phone at three am last night because it was keeping me awake, but i decided to wait till now to edit it and post. hopefully you like it.

It starts unexpectedly, like they all fucking do. One second he’s fine, sitting in his workshop and fiddling with parts, and the next he’s struggling to breathe, whole body convulsing as he tries to get enough air in, but it won’t work, he _can’t_ , it just _won’t_ —

Tears form in the corner of his eyes, falling down his cheeks, but he can’t even feel them; is too focused on trying to breath, on trying to regain control.

He feels like he’s dying, like he’s suffocating. His hands rub at his throat, but it doesn’t do _anything_ , nothing’s working, nothing’s _helping_ , and he can’t. It seems to last forever, and he just can’t. He _can’t_ —

And then it stops. Just like that.

He’s left leaning against a work table, one hand planted on the surface while the other still rubs at his throat, above the reactor. His clothes are dishevelled, his chest still rising and falling far too quickly, but it’s easier. He feels like he can breathe, at least. Like he’s no longer dying.

He looks around, though he can’t really _see_ anything, and brings a hand to his face, wiping away the remnants of tears. He wants to wipe away the attack all together.

_Weak._

He gives a minute shake of his head, as if to rid himself of the thought. He considers asking Friday to check his heart, his brain, but he knows. He _knows_.

Maybe he should expect it to happen.

“Sir?”

His body jolts at the voice, and it’s only now he realises that Friday’s been talking to him, been trying to bring him back.

“I’m fine,” is the automatic response, rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. But his voice is still shaky, his hands are still trembling, his body is still short for breath.

“Just try and breathe, sir,” Friday tells him, and Tony shakes his head at the words, a short, humourless laugh slipping from his lips. He thinks the fact that he’s breathing might just be the issue.

Eventually, he settles. He takes a seat on one of the work tables, looking around once more. He doesn’t even know how long he’s been here. Two, three days? He’d lost track of time, the lack of sleep making his days blur together in a montage of work, work, drink, work, panic, drink, work, panic, drink, drink, drink...

Maybe he’s glad he can’t remember.

He feels drained now; exhausted. Yet he knows he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he tried, knows that panic lingers in his subconscious, that nightmares will grip him if he shuts his eyes. It wouldn’t be worth it. He’s stayed up longer before, he can do it again; can stay awake till his body is too exhausted to dream.

The table is littered with bits and pieces of armour and other gadgets, but he barely remembers what he’d be doing. It makes him angry, so, so, angry. Mostly at himself.

He’s supposed to know how to fix things. He’s supposed to know how to keep things together. That’s who he is, that’s what he _does_ , but he can’t seem to manage to fix himself. Can’t seem to pull himself together; to keep his shit together.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t even have the beginning of an idea for how to fix it. So he does what he knows, goes back to what works, ignoring the consequences.

Drink. Work. Drink.


End file.
